Whistleblower
by balladofbliss
Summary: "If there's anything to what he says, then we should get to the bottom of it." Sam's about to. Post 5x11.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Let me start out by saying that I was thrilled with where our favorite pair left off in terms of their relationship – which is probably why I haven't had all that much to say about it until this point. I do think we're going to see things get pretty dark at work for Sam, though, and I doubt Andy's about to let him go down that road alone. On that note, a lot of what's to come is somewhat unfamiliar territory for me, and while my aim as always is to keep things accurate and plausible, I wouldn't expect any true-crime expertise here. I do, of course, encourage constructive criticism – and I hope you enjoy.

* * *

Sam jostles himself awake for what must be the twentieth time this hour. _Deep breath_, he orders himself. _Get up and stretch or something_. He's frankly starting to become a little exasperated with himself; despite his strict instructions to the contrary, his eyes have the audacity to try to close, over and over again. Ten-plus years of undercover, and to look at him, one would think all those all-nighters had been a figment of his imagination.

Of course, said all-nighters tended to have a lot more action going on than this particular night, which involves futile and repeated searches for connections between the police commissioner and the denizens of Toronto's seedy underbelly. Santana might be… well, probably is a lot of things, but stupid is hardly one of them. Sam has been at this for a good while now, and he's failed to find one thing that – at least on paper – is less than immaculate.

He stands up, takes a couple of pathetic laps around the kitchen table before returning to his chair; contemplates making another pot of coffee, or taking a sick day, or just saying 'screw it' and going to bed already. This is the third consecutive night he's been awake to greet 3am; he's so sleep-deprived at this point that he expects full-on hallucinations to start any minute now.

(But not sleep-deprived enough, apparently, because suddenly he's imagining just what he _might_ hallucinate, and somehow that leads to visions of Santana and Ted McDonald chasing one another through the kitchen and around the living room on horseback and…)

He closes the laptop. "Enough is enough," he says aloud, voice coarse and uneven.

"Enough of what?"

Startled, he rises abruptly and spins around on his heel. Even though he sees exactly who he expected in the doorway – Andy, with tousled hair and heavy-lidded eyes – he's starting to get a little paranoid.

(Could be the nature of his investigation; could be the lack of sleep. Who's to say?)

"What are you doing awake?" he asks. "It's not even four in the morning."

"Kept waking up. Half the bed was cold." She shrugs. "Enough of what?"

He sighs. "Nothing. I just keep coming up empty on Santana."

Andy pads over to the table, pulls out a chair for herself adjacent to his.

"Maybe it's like I said yesterday," she suggests gently. (_And the day before that, and the day before that, and all the way back to two weeks ago when I nearly got blown to bits_, Sam hears.) "Maybe McDonald really was just a conspiracy theorist, and Santana isn't actually doing anything _that_ wrong."

"He slammed the guy's face into a table, Andy," Sam says blearily, sitting back down. "There's no way that's an isolated incident. And let's not forget how quick he was to pull rank with the whole thing with you and Duncan, and that lawyer. The guy's on a power trip."

"Power trip, sure," Andy confirms. "But corruption? Involvement with the mob? That's a little different."

Sam yawns. "Well, even if he's as dirty as they come, nothing on the Internet or the remote server seems to want to hint at it."

She turns the laptop on the table so it's facing her and pulls it open. "Where have you looked online?"

"Search engines," he replies, letting his head rest atop an outstretched arm on the table. "Newspaper archives. I mean, I'm not expecting a fully notarized confession to pop up in Google Images, but…" He trails off as he sees Andy lean in closer, eyes narrowing. He scoots his chair around so the laptop screen is visible to him. "What is it?"

"Do you remember this?" she asks, pointing at the headline on a news article. "'Two officers and three civilians dead after faulty flash grenade fire.' This was up in 12, a year and a half ago. I was telling Chloe about it a few days ago, it's the only reason I'm even thinking about it."

"I'm sure I heard about it at the time, but refresh my memory."

"The detectives received bad intel about a drug trafficker's location, and ETF raided the wrong house," Andy says, skimming the page in front of her. "When they set off the flash grenade, it malfunctioned and caught fire, and everybody near it – the first two ETF officers to enter, the elderly couple who lived in the home, and their adult son who was visiting from Vancouver – ended up being killed."

"And ETF had to retrain on flash grenades," Sam recalls. "But what does that have to do with Santana? What did you search for?"

"'TPS problems' plus 'equipment.' And believe me, no trouble finding results there." She sighs, her fingers tapping steadily on the keyboard. "But there was definitely a blog post someone wrote about it that… here we go."

She points to something on the screen. "'What happened to ETF officers Brown and Rivas, and to the Nelson family, is undeniably tragic. But _how_ did it happen? There's no question that the ETF team was acting on misinformation; certainly they would have had no interest in harming three innocent people, much less themselves. But it's worth considering that just five weeks before this incident, TPS and weapons manufacturer DuraCorps announced a new partnership, to ensure that TPS has the best equipment available to help fight crime and protect citizens' safety.' There are about fifty sources here, too."

"The only thing I know about DuraCorps is that they were a big military supplier," Sam says, words coming like molasses through his exhaustion. "And then their name suddenly stopped being mentioned in the news."

"I'll try to put the dates together, see if I can figure out when they started providing for local law enforcement and why," Andy asserts. "And _you_ are going to bed. You look like shit."

"Just what I want to hear from the woman I love, thanks," he retorts, though he stands up. "You know, half the bed will be cold when I get there."

"You won't notice," Andy says without turning around. "You're so tired, you won't notice if a horse climbs into bed at the same time you do."

His earlier vision returns to the forefront of his mind, and he groans. "I'd notice a horse. Believe me." He pauses at the door, looks back. "Thanks, McNally."

She does turn to him then; cocks her head to the side with a newly energized smile. "What can I say? We make a good team, you and me."

* * *

It turns out she's right; bizarre apparitions notwithstanding, it wouldn't matter if an all-out rodeo was taking place inches from the bed. Sam almost immediately falls into a mercifully dreamless sleep, and when he wakes nearly ten hours later, it takes several moments of marveling at the novelty of actually being rested to realize that he's just slept away half his work day. Sitting bolt upright in panic, he searches the bedside table for his cell, instead finding a folded scrap of paper.

_Called in sick for us both. Pretty sure everyone thinks we're having a lot more fun than we are. _

_-A._

He breathes slow, lets waves of relief slowly dissolve the unexpected adrenaline rush. Eventually, he climbs out of bed and follows the scent of coffee to the kitchen. Andy must have come in at some point while he was asleep; she's dressed, an uncapped ballpoint pen holding her hair in a tenuous bun as she furiously scribbles something on the notepad beside Sam's laptop.

"Did you sleep?" he asks, swinging open the cabinet above the sink to retrieve a mug.

"Yeah," she responds distractedly. "On the couch for a few hours. Are you serious?"

"What?" Sam takes a sip of coffee as he approaches the table and takes a seat beside her.

She looks up at him. "So remember how DuraCorps was making stuff for the military? Turns out they lost their contract after multiple failed safety tests. That was in August, 2012 – three weeks before Santana and their CEO announced the partnership."

Sam raises an eyebrow. "And five people died from a faulty grenade a little over a month later."

She nods grimly. "What are the odds that DuraCorps magically improved their standards and manufactured all new equipment in three weeks?"

"Not especially likely," he remarks. "But would Santana have known about the reason the military contract ended?"

Andy clicks on a second window and turns the screen toward Sam. "I looked up Joseph Linken, the DuraCorps CEO. The society pages did a feature on his wedding about five years ago. And can I just say, it was his fourth wedding, and that woman in the purple dress in the background there is his youngest daughter, who's actually a year older than his newest wife – "

"McNally."

"Just wanted you to know we're not talking about Mr. Integrity here," she replies, scrolling until she finds what she's looking for. "There."

It's an image of a grinning Linken and Santana, tuxedoed arms around one another's shoulders. The caption describes them as childhood friends.

"Makes sense," he says in disbelief. "Linken whines about the consequences of cutting corners to his old buddy, and Santana finds a use for all the crappy stuff the military doesn't want."

"Yep." She meets his gaze. "And I'm guessing he didn't do it out of the kindness of his heart."

Sam considers this for a moment. "You think he got a kickback."

"Would you put it past these guys?"

"Nope," he assures her. "We just need to figure out how to prove it without Santana finding out that we're digging around his records – and assuming Ted McDonald's information was valid, we're still at square one when it comes to any mob ties."

Andy shrugs. "It's like you said yesterday. There's no way this is an isolated incident. We'll find it." She rises. "I'm going to make some sandwiches."

Sam continues to look at the image on the screen before him; wonders what other secrets exist beyond plain sight. All he knows for sure is that he and Andy have stumbled upon the tip of a well-hidden iceberg, and for better or worse, they're about to descend below the surface.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews; the enthusiasm is greatly appreciated! A lot of things happen in this chapter, and some parts are probably a bit dry, so apologies for that. Hopefully, it'll set the stage for what's to come. Let me know what you think – thanks for reading.

* * *

It's fairly obvious that the preliminary kitchen-table phase of this investigation needs to end now, for a couple of reasons. First off, Sam knows they can afford zero naïveté when it comes to the people with whom they're potentially dealing. Perhaps the most important thing about any future information they obtain is that its discovery goes undetected, at least until he can figure out what they should do with it. (Internal Affairs clearly isn't an option.)

Beyond the need for discretion, he has another major concern – one who is currently standing at the counter slicing a tomato.

He wouldn't dream of asking Andy to stay out of this. Putting aside for a moment the cringe-inducing fight it would almost certainly trigger (_Either you trust me or you don't, Sam, but you can't keep changing your mind_, he can pretty much hear her yelling), he knows damn well she'd just keep going on her own. History has proven that that's a recipe for disaster – and even if she has more lives than a cat, there are only so many just-in-the-nick-of-time rescues one can expect to receive.

But neither does it mean that he's perfectly okay with her proverbial fingerprints ending up on whatever they unearth. If there's going to be heat from this – and he's certain there will be – he's going to be the one to take it.

"Sam!" Her voice snaps him out of his inattention.

"What?"

She keeps her eyes from rolling, but just barely. "I asked you twice if you want cheese on this."

"Oh." He blinks a couple times. "Sure. Cheese, no cheese, I don't care."

She temporarily abandons the sandwich fixings and comes back to the table; leans down behind him and wraps an arm around his chest. "Take a break. Okay? There's not much more we can do from here. In the morning, we'll be back at work, and we can research all of this a little more closely."

He snorts. "Right. So should we just go announce to Santana that we're investigating him, or wait until he audits who's been looking him up?"

"I don't think he can…"

"Personnel files, McNally. Bank records. If it's confidential and need-to-know only, then it's on our wish list." He sighs. "I have no idea what to do. Where to start, how to get the information we need so we can get the information we _actually_ need…"

She rests her chin on his shoulder. "Who can we trust?"

Which is how Sam finds himself in Oliver's office nineteen hours later, opening and closing his mouth repeatedly as he searches for a way to begin.

* * *

Oliver looks at him patiently at first, then with mounting impatience, and finally stands up, tapping the desk with both hands. "Well, buddy, it was really kind of you to visit. It gets lonely up here in my glass tower sometimes, and I appreciate your stopping in, but unfortunately paperwork doesn't complete itself, so…"

"If you needed to look into allegations made against an officer without anyone knowing you were looking into it, where would you start?" Sam finally asks, in a bit of a rush.

Oliver momentarily glances behind Sam at the closed door, then slowly returns to his chair. "Would this have anything to do with the massive bureaucratic headache I've had for a couple weeks now?"

Sam nods. "We think it goes way beyond those two events."

"One, I don't want to know who 'we' consists of. And two, I assume the officer in question is not, say, the equivalent of your average beat cop," Oliver murmurs.

"Think higher profile. Much higher."

Oliver looks away; inhales slowly through his nose before puffing air out through pursed lips in steady increments. Sam hears muffled-whisper counting as he exhales.

"What's that about?" he inquires, attempting to keep his tone curious rather than bewildered.

"Celery's big into measured breathing for stress relief. I keep trying, and guess what? Brown liquor still works better." He laughs humorlessly. "So officially, all I can tell you is that without clear and properly obtained evidence, there's no cause to proceed in an investigation of this nature. And should you come across such evidence, your job is to turn it over to Internal Affairs immediately."

_And unofficially?_ Sam wonders, his stomach sinking a bit. "Right. Well, thanks, I mean…"

"Did I tell you what happened last weekend?"

Sam wrinkles his brow. "Can't say you did."

"I had the girls, and Maddie – God, what a kid – she was trying to stream some video, I think it was cats falling off things, and ended up downloading a virus onto my computer. I mean, Sam, it was crazy. The main screen looked fine, and then you'd click on a program, any program at all, and everything would just be covered in frogs. Just cartoon frogs jumping everywhere and ribbiting, the whole thing."

_What the hell is he getting at_? "Wow, that, uh… sounds like a mess."

"Huge mess. So you know what I did? I called Sebastian Cho. He does our IT stuff, he's great with computers. And he was nice enough to come over that afternoon and give me a hand."

"So he fixed it."

"Yeah, it wasn't easy, either. See, there are all of these built-in security features that you have to override in order to delete the virus from the mainframe – or something like that, there was a lot of tech lingo being thrown around. All I know is that whatever was blocking things up, Sebastian got around it. And when he was done, it was like nothing had ever happened." Oliver holds his gaze, willing him to get the message.

"So. Sebastian is good with that kind of stuff, huh?" Sam remarks deliberately. "That could be good to know, for future reference."

"Mm-hmm. And the craziest part about it is that I was expecting to come in on Monday and have everyone laugh at me about it. Who lets their kid download a computer virus anymore? How '90s of me, right? But the funny thing is… Sebastian didn't say anything. To anyone."

Sam nods knowingly. "He's not a big talker, then?"

"Not a word." Oliver grins. "So that was my weekend, and _this_," he gestures to the large stack of triplicate forms on his desk, "is my reality."

"Well. I'll leave you to it, boss."

On his way out, Oliver's wall calendar catches Sam's eye. The upcoming weekend is circled in red, while the one that just passed has a 'Z' written in the corners of the Saturday and Sunday boxes. He looks back at Oliver, who's already cursing under his breath at the document before him.

Sam suppresses a smirk as he pushes the door open. _Well, he _did_ say he wanted to take improv classes once when he was drunk._

* * *

Just as Oliver said (or rather, didn't say), Sebastian Cho is a remarkably quiet individual. Sam is fairly vague with his request – how to access files without being traced, for the purposes of an investigation – and Sebastian goes about setting up a proxy server on Nash's computer, the screen of which isn't visible to passersby. (Just as well she's out on a call.) As he works, he maintains an expression so blankly calm that Sam frankly wonders if everything is all right in there.

"You're all set," Sebastian announces. "If you need any help, I'll be here for another couple of hours."

Sam thanks him and watches him head back to his desk. He has no idea whether or not they can trust the guy, but right now, they have no choice.

Getting into Santana's work email is probably easier than it should be. The password hint is "first car you crashed, right to left, cumpleaños de mi amor." Sam remembers when Oliver and Jerry – maybe someday it won't sting when he thinks of him – dragged him to the commissioner's gala five years ago, and Santana definitely told an anecdote about totaling a cruiser on his second shift as a rookie; he types 'cruiser' in backwards, and scrolls back in his text messages to see what day Andy was venting about Duncan making a 'happy birthday' video for his mom on his phone instead of paying attention to the radio.

After clicking through a couple of folders, he finds an encrypted document that Santana seems to have sent to himself from his personal address. He gets in with the same password, this time with the numbers first; originality doesn't seem to be Santana's forte, which Sam can only hope will work to their advantage. Turns out he's struck gold; it's a master list of his user names and passwords – which do in fact vary from one place to another. He can't risk anyone seeing this come up in the printer, so he quickly looks through and makes a note in his phone of the most pertinent data. He'll move it someplace a little less conspicuous once he's out of work.

He's barely logged out when Andy bursts through the door, already back in street clothes. "You're never going to believe this," she stage-whispers.

He looks up with a start. "I could say the same. What's up?"

She perches on the edge of Nash's desk. "Ever heard of Armour North Security?"

"The biggest private security firm in the city? Yeah, I have."

"Chloe and I responded to a call there this afternoon when EMS wanted backup. A receptionist had a seizure, but whoever called it in was panicking so much that they didn't know if something worse was going on, but anyway… guess who was walking through the lobby."

"Santana?" Sam narrows his eyes.

"Yup. And a bunch of other familiar-looking people, so when we finished the call, I told Chloe I was craving a latte and made her run into a coffee shop with a line out the door so I could look a few things up."

"And?"

Andy grins. "Turns out he's on their board of directors. And so are four different members of the city council, _and_ the Crown Attorney."

Sam looks at her, nonplussed. "Okay. Except it's not illegal to serve on private company boards, and prominent people like to do that sometimes."

"Do those companies have a CEO whose family has mob ties?" Andy asks.

At Sam's expectant silence, she continues. "Sara Harmon was a housewife who never finished university, and six years ago she suddenly became the head of a billion-dollar company? Doesn't make sense, right? Except for this." Andy holds up her phone, open to a photo.

Sam skims the obituary screencap. "Margaret Reilly Nolan, 82… Predeceased by first and second husbands, survived by children John Andrew Reilly, Frank Nolan Jr., and Sara Nolan Harmon." He glances at Andy. "The same John Andrew Reilly who runs with the NAC gang?"

"And who got a furlough from prison for his mother's funeral. Any thoughts on what his job title was before he got locked up the last time?"

"I don't know," Sam drawls. "Wouldn't be CEO of Armour North, would it?"

"Ding ding ding. Congratulations," Andy says with a smile. "You've just won the grand prize."

"New car?"

Andy scrunches her nose, as if in deep thought. "Mmm. How about an evening of takeout and TV with me?"

"Not sure. It doesn't have that new-car smell, so…" He stands up, deftly dodging her backhand swat of retaliation. "What do you say we get out of here?"

As they turn toward the door, though, Oliver passes over the threshold, wearing a somber all-business expression. "Hey, Sam. We've got a problem."

Sam feels his burgeoning smile die instantly. "What's going on, Oliver?" he somehow manages to ask in a casual tone.

"Do you remember Nathaniel Gallant, who we brought in for robbery a few weeks ago?"

_Not what I was expecting to hear. Thank God. _"Yeah," Sam responds, a bit perplexed. "I talked to him at the scene and then again in interrogation, he had some less than pleasant things to say about cops, but eventually he gave up his partner. Made bail, awaiting trial."

"And do you remember who the arresting officer was?"

"Epstein." He hasn't the slightest clue where this is going, and based on her face, neither does Andy.

"That's what I remember hearing, too. Funny thing is, Detective," Oliver says much too calmly for Sam's liking, "Epstein's arrest report is gone. No evidence of him ever having filed one."

"Could it have gotten accidentally erased somehow?" Andy queries.

"It should still exist as having been written and then deleted. We do have a record of Gallant being booked, and video surveillance of the interrogation, but what actually happened at the scene is now, from an official standpoint, anybody's guess."

"That makes no sense," Sam replies. "But it has what to do with me?"

"Mr. Gallant has come forward with a complaint about being roughed up at the scene," Oliver tells him, reading from a piece of paper in his hand. "Says the cuffs were on too tight, cut his wrist, and he that was 'slammed into the outside of the squad car repeatedly' and 'verbally abused with racial slurs.'" Oliver looks up, crumpling the page in his fist. "And the complaint includes a positive identification of Detective Sam Swarek as the one responsible."

"That's ridiculous," Sam protests. "Epstein was there, he made the arrest, and _none_ of that happened."

"Sure, I believe you. Except we have no documentation to back it up, and Gallant is threatening to go public with this," Oliver says wearily. "This really could not have come at a worse time, Sam. I don't know what else to say, except get in touch with your union rep. This has the potential to become a very, very big deal."

* * *

Neither Sam nor Andy says a word until they walk through her front door. "He can't know," she promises emphatically. "It's not possible."

"Maybe it is." Sam tells her about his foray into Santana's email account and the information he uncovered. "Maybe he has a system set up so that if someone else logs on, he gets notified."

Andy contemplates this for a moment. "Try one of the passwords," she says suddenly. "If he knows anything happened, he would've changed it."

They find a site that will bounce their IP address through some other country, and Sam goes for the bank account login – probably the most sensitive, and what he'd imagine would be the first password that Santana would change if he suspected anything. It works. So does the personal email, the investment-firm account… everything.

"So he doesn't know," Sam states doubtfully.

Andy shakes her head, clicking through the statement histories. "But _we _now know that he had a large cash deposit made into his money-market account three days before the DuraCorps partnership was announced. And… a lot of cash deposits, actually."

"Write it down?" Sam requests. "We don't know if we'll ever see this again."

As Andy makes notes, Sam remembers what Santana said before he left, the night of the bomb and Ted McDonald's death. _It's a shame the man took his own life, but we'll never know why. Some things are just not worth getting curious about, Detective._

"Sam."

He looks up. Andy's pointing at the screen.

"Two days ago, $10,000 was withdrawn in a certified check, made out to cash. It's already been cashed, and Santana must've requested a photo receipt."

The endorsement on the back of the check's image is borderline illegible, but Sam would bet anything that the signature belongs to Nathaniel Gallant.

Whether or not the commissioner knows yet what they're up to, Sam is absolutely certain Santana's had an eye on him for weeks. Whatever's going on with Gallant – the sudden complaint, the money, the bizarre disappearance of official records – can't be construed as anything but a warning shot.

Sam just hopes they can figure out how to fire back.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thanks so much for the feedback. Here we take a tiny bit of a break from some of the more recent discoveries and uncover new secrets, this time from Andy's viewpoint. Is there a tremendous, perhaps excessive amount of drama going on behind the scenes? Sure, probably. But keep in mind that a) we're talking about the same show that responded to an officer's concealing of her mental illness and subsequent major screwup with a promotion (we'll get to that in a minute), and b) while an investigation like this might take months or years in reality, here in fanfic-for-TV land, things are going to become rather condensed for the purposes of the story. Enough about that; on with it. I hope you enjoy.

* * *

Andy's not privy to Sam's meeting with Gallant and his lawyer, but she figures it should be fairly straightforward. Once Dov goes in and clarifies what actually happened at the scene, the arrest report's disappearance will probably be written off as a technological glitch, and Gallant's allegations will be dropped.

Still, she lingers at the barn that afternoon just in case things turn out to be more complicated than she expects, as has been the case every step of the way so far. And she's glad she has when she sees the conference room door open in the periphery. From her seat in the bullpen, she attempts to turn toward the door subtly, but rises and heads up the stairs when only one person exits the room, walking fast. It's Dov, and he's clearly pissed.

"What happened?" Andy hisses, struggling to catch up with him as he barrels down the hallway.

"What _happened_?" Dov snaps through clenched teeth. "Oh, I don't know, just a complete dismissal of the facts, and all of my ethics being called into question. Swarek's, too." At Andy's imploring expression, he blows out a harsh breath and continues in a low tone. "I told them the truth – that we apprehended Gallant, and I cuffed him and read him his rights while he kept yelling that he didn't do anything. All Sam said to him at the scene was, 'Doesn't look like it. I'll meet you both back at the station.'"

Andy looks at him expectantly. "Okay. And?"

"And, they said that without a report to corroborate it, they couldn't verify the truth of that statement. Gallant's lawyer said…" He stops speaking for a moment, shakes his head indignantly. "She actually said that Swarek has so much experience convincing people to say things they don't want to say between undercover and detective work, that isn't it _possible_ I was just going along with his story?"

"What does that mean?" Andy asks, aghast. "'Convincing people to say things they don't want to say?' Is she trying to prove that he can get people to talk, which is his _job_, or that… that he gets them to lie?"

"That's definitely what she wants people to believe he did with Gallant. She wants the confession thrown out, everything. And the Internal Affairs rep in there is just going along with it. Not even listening."

_Of course Internal Affairs is here for this. Not that this is technically internal_. She sighs. "Who else is in there?"

Dov begins ticking off names on his fingers. "Swarek, obviously. And his useless union rep, who showed up late. The IA guy. Gallant, his scummy lawyer, and Oliver. I swear, Andy, this is such a –"

"Wait, wait," Andy interrupts. "We met with his rep last night to go over everything. Sean Mitchell. He seemed to have a good handle on things."

"Yeah, well, he apparently had some unexpected obligation. So we got some scatterbrain instead. Bradley Bradley or something."

Andy groans, remembering her own disastrous representation. "_Barry_ Bradley?"

"Yeah. Listen, Andy," he continues earnestly, "I don't know what's going on here, but it's fucked up, and I'm not gonna let it happen."

"We thought the same thing," she admits hesitantly. "But I think we're in over –" She stops talking abruptly as she sees someone walking up behind Dov.

"Epstein, McNally." Marlo nods at the pair of them as she passes, a courteous half-smile on her face. As soon as she's gone, Andy rolls her eyes.

"Why is she still here? And how pathetic is it that with all of _this_" – she gestures in the general direction of the conference room – "going on, _she's_ the one who manages to ruin my day? Ugh. And I swear she looks guilty every time she sees me. What is that about? I know all her secrets already."

"Uh. Andy." Dov is beginning to seem vaguely uncomfortable.

"What?" She laughs, not entirely kindly. "Everyone does. And not just hers; they know mine, yours, everyone's. What's the best way to make a secret disappear? Bring it to 15 Division and watch it magically transform into common knowledge."

"Right, but…" Dov clears his throat. "I don't think you know _all_ her secrets."

* * *

"Is it Sam's?"

Marlo spins her chair around in the otherwise empty office to face Andy, eyes wide. "What?" she hisses, clearly stalling for time.

Andy walks to a nearby desk and helps herself to a seat. "We've always been honest with one another, Marlo, and believe me when I tell you that this would be a _really_ bad week for you to change tack. Is. It. Sam's?"

(The rational side of her knows that confronting her boyfriend's ex-girlfriend about a rumored pregnancy – at work, no less – is not likely to end up in the Mature Behavior Hall of Fame. But the amalgam of worry over said boyfriend and residual insecurity about their somewhat dicey past is allowing her id to prevail in this circumstance.

At least she closed the door.)

Marlo falters; looks for a moment as if she's about to speak before looking away.

"How far along are you?" Andy prompts, more calmly now.

Marlo takes a slow breath in, releases it. "Fifteen weeks," she responds quietly.

Andy does some quick math; tries to conceal the rush of relief she feels. "And, um. Not to pry or anything, but… it's safe? Like, with the meds and everything?"

"I'm pretty sure this whole conversation qualifies as prying, McNally," Marlo retorts, "but yes. I have good doctors, I'm being monitored for any risks, I have plenty of support. I would thank you for your concern, but I doubt you actually have any for me."

At that, the haste retreats and Andy starts to realize just how much of an asshole move this was. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well." Marlo shrugs, that indistinct expression of remorse returning. "We all have something to be sorry for, don't we?"

Andy's not really sure how to respond to that, or how this conversation can possibly progress further. She suspects that after how things began, she can't exactly conclude with _Okay, see you at the baby shower_; nor are there any appropriate questions to ask. It's absolutely none of Andy's business who the father is, especially when she's confirmed who it isn't. She's struggling to figure out how to ask Marlo to clarify what she means when she sees Marlo look out past the glass wall and stiffen momentarily. Her posture returns to normal just as quickly and she averts her eyes to the open file on her desk, but Andy follows the path her gaze just took and sees the commissioner walking through the bullpen.

"You know him at all?" Andy queries, tone nonchalant.

After a pause, Marlo cocks her head. "Sure. In a manner of speaking." She's pretty skilled at camouflaging her feelings, so when she glances down at her abdomen, Andy knows it can't be anything but deliberate.

"Um." Andy forces herself to count to ten – then starts back over again and goes to twenty – before speaking. "So what I think you just told me is…"

"That it's him. Yes. He's the –" Marlo cuts herself off, nods.

Andy scrapes herself off the floor and hears herself ask evenly, "Is it still going on?"

Marlo shakes her head. "It's not what you'd think. Or maybe it is, I don't know. He was at the IA investigation, I went through the wringer and got left out to dry, and he was kind. Sympathetic. He was the only person to acknowledge that everyone makes mistakes. We met for coffee, one thing led to another, and…" She shrugs. "When I found out, I was still on administrative leave. I didn't expect anything from him, but I thought he deserved to know. In case he wanted to – I don't know. Just in case."

"What did he say?"

Marlo wrinkles her nose. "Nothing at first. But a few days later, a messenger brought a contract. A gag order, really. If I go public, ask for a paternity test, I forfeit my right to child support. Not that he called it that; I think it said 'a monthly sum to subsidize expenses.' I didn't know what else to do, so I signed it and sent it back."

"And?"

"I was reinstated and assigned to intelligence the next day."

They sit in silence for a moment before Andy asks, "Why are you telling me all of this? Especially if you're not supposed to talk about it."

"You said it. We've always been honest with one another." Marlo closes her eyes briefly. "And… because while I was trying to decrypt the hard drives, he came in with another one. He said it was found hidden at the scene when they went through the garage, but that the IT guys had already tried and failed to crack it, so could I just bring it to evidence with the rest."

To say Andy's dumbfounded would be a gross understatement. "You think that was the bomb."

"I would bet the world on it," Marlo tells her. "I don't know if it's paranoid to think he wanted to take me out, but as it was…"

_Well. That explains the guilt. _"As it was, I almost died," Andy interjects softly.

Marlo leans forward, elbows on her knees. "Andy, believe me. If I had known or suspected _anything_…"

"I know," Andy says flatly, glancing at Marlo's desk. After a beat, she meets Marlo's eyes. "I know you didn't." All the jokes in the world about her invincibility have disintegrated in the face of this; of what so easily could have been and how precariously close she came to it.

She forces herself to compartmentalize, to tuck it away in the recesses of her mind until it's safe to let it run wild. In the dark, probably; beneath her duvet, Sam within reach. For now, she needs to focus. She draws a jagged breath and rises. "Marlo, is there any chance you made a copy of that contract?"

"Yes," Marlo replies. "It's in my sister's – _my _house, I moved in with her a few weeks ago. And I scanned it to save a digital copy. It has watermarks, so it's pretty obvious it's not the original."

Andy looks at her intently. "I'm gonna need a copy of that."

Marlo nods in silence.

* * *

Dov is loitering near the office door when Andy exits, attempting to look busy and failing miserably at it. He makes a veritable beeline for her. "You were in there forever. Everybody still alive?"

Andy feels herself blanch at his phrasing; shakes it off again. "Yeah, it's fine. Look, you said you want to help?"

"Yeah, sure," Dov asserts. "Anything."

She sighs. "You're doing a lot with the cameras right now, right? Is there any way you get ahold of the surveillance here, from that night? Evidence, the interrogation room..."

"I'm on it," he promises.

She thanks him, mechanically spends more time than should be necessary finishing up paperwork from the shift, and goes to change. Sam texts her while she's in the locker room to tell her he's out at the truck; she finishes up and heads to the parking lot. She registers passing Santana on her way out, engaged in what does not appear to be a particularly happy conversation with Duncan in the hallway, but it's going to have to wait for now.

Neither of them says a word as they climb in to the cab, or as they drive, or as they walk (stagger?) into Sam's house. She looks inquisitively in the direction of the kitchen, and he shakes his head; just as well, as she's not particularly hungry either.

Once they're in bed, side by side staring up at the ceiling, he breaks the silence. "IA recommended that I be put on leave."

Andy doesn't move. "What did Oliver say?"

"That until proven or ordered otherwise, he's taking the consistent story of two officers over a failure of technology and the claims of a guy on his third robbery charge. He's a good guy, Oliver."

"Mmm. Yeah." She has no idea where to begin; the soap opera she uncovered today isn't exactly something one drops into casual conversation. So she says the only thing she can think of, the thing she's been mentally screaming for hours now: "I almost died."

She feels the bed shift as Sam turns to her, apparently perplexed. She rolls on her side to face him and repeats ardently, "I almost died, Sam. And he's responsible. I know it."

"Yeah." He cups her cheek with a gentle palm. "We just have to prove it."

She remembers the contract, which Marlo – true to her word – has already forwarded to her; compels herself despite her exhaustion to wonder why Santana was arguing with Duncan in the middle of the station. It's becoming increasingly clear that they're on the verge of something colossal; even if the puzzle pieces are scattered, they're all more or less within sight. For the first time in recent memory, she can sense a ray of hope – fragile, uncertain, but _real_. "Actually… we might not be as far off as we thought."


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Sorry for the delay, real life has this annoying tendency to get in the way. Extra long chapter this time to make up for it, and hopefully the next one (which will either be the last or the penultimate, we'll have to see) will be out within a few days. There's some POV jumping; hopefully it's clear enough who's thinking what and when.

Also, as a quick note, I got some feedback that wasn't entirely on board with Marlo's role in the previous chapter. I totally get that, and when the back 11 episodes come out, we may very well find out she's in on all of it and just as dirty as we suspect the commissioner to be. But I found that didn't particularly work for this story. Marlo is generally a gray area for me, anyway; and here, she did something helpful and proved she had a conscience, but it doesn't necessarily mean she's a reformed hero. Like I said, I understand how other people might see her as being unequivocally evil, but I don't share that viewpoint. I hope that makes sense.

That having been said, we continue. Let me know what you think; I hope you enjoy.

* * *

Hana Keyworth has been ready for this day to end since before it started. Back-to-back depositions this morning; a prolonged union arbitration session immediately afterward; and now this disaster of a contract, at which she's been cringing for what feels like so long that the words are beginning to swim before her eyes. In retrospect, she probably should have had her assistant order her some lunch, as she's consumed nothing but coffee since sunrise – but right now, all she wants is the boxed pizza she's at least 60 percent sure is still in her freezer, consumed from the comfort of her own sofa.

_All I wanted was to be a journalist_, she finds herself thinking several times a day. Truly, it was pretty much her only goal from Grade 1 through undergrad – and yet she found herself in law school after pressure and unambiguous threats from her corporate-attorney father. Unable to shake the idea of speaking for those without a voice, she took a job with a firm specializing in human rights and labor law; she hasn't regretted for one moment renouncing mergers, acquisitions, and her father's approval. Some days, though, the paperwork and technicalities seem to overwhelm her ideals to the point that she can barely recognize them anymore.

_Screw it_, she thinks. _This contract will be just as bad tomorrow, and maybe I'll be less hungry._ She gets her desk in some semblance of order and rises, but just as she's reaching for her coat on the back of the door, her intercom buzzes.

She groans, but realizes resignedly that she's going to have to walk past her assistant's desk on the way out anyway. _Unless going out the window is an option. Seventeen stories isn't that high a jump, is it_?

Carrie's voice crackles through the intercom. "Hana, there's a couple of people here to see you, and they say it's urgent."

_So is my empty stomach. _She rolls her eyes and holds down the talk button. "Have them make an appointment for later this week. Or maybe Scott has time to see them, he's here late tonight."

Quickly, Carrie's voice returns. "Nope. It has to be you, and one of them is saying they aren't leaving until they speak with you."

_Oh, for the love of…_ She flops back down in her chair, slouching as low as possible while still being able to see over the desk. "Send them in."

A moment later, she hears the door click open and a determined-looking brunette enters, followed by a guy with a leather jacket and a five-o-clock shadow. Hana looks at them with as much patience as she can muster – which isn't a lot at this particular moment. "Please sit down," she says unenthusiastically. "What can I do for you?"

The brunette leans forward. "We need help exposing corruption in the police department."

Hana laughs uncomfortably. "Okay. Well, thanks for not beating around the bush, but I'm not really sure what you want me to do. Or how you know about this alleged corruption, or what it specifically is that may or may not be happening. See, so there's a lot of holes here, and it's after seven, so maybe we can meet in a few days and I can…"

"Surfacing Truth," the brunette interrupts. "Does that sound familiar to you?"

"Shit," Hana mutters involuntarily. "I mean… yes." She sighs. "It's a blog."

"_Your_ blog," the other woman counters.

Hana sneaks a glance at the guy, who's looking back at her expectantly. "Do you speak?" she asks him, past the point of filters and politeness.

He raises an eyebrow. "You wrote about DuraCorps and TPS a couple years ago. But it goes a lot deeper than that, and I think we have proof."

Hana takes a deep breath. "Give me one second." She presses the talk button. "Carrie, we're gonna need a couple of takeout menus in here."

* * *

"So it's pretty clear he's after you," Hana says bluntly around a mouthful of noodles. "And the connection to Joseph Linken is suspicious enough to at least get people talking. But his serving on the board of Armour North isn't enough in and of itself to prove a connection to the mob."

"What about the cash deposits?" Andy presses. They've been at this for over an hour now, and it's starting to feel like they're moving backward.

Hana shrugs. "Someone's giving him cash. Could be the NAC gang, could be his mother. No way to track that." She closes the manila folder into which Andy and Sam have compiled every piece of information they have. "Look, I know a guy who might be able to help, if I can get in touch with him. This is sort of his thing."

Andy and Sam exchange looks; Andy's pretty sure they both know where this is going. "This guy – how do you know him?"

"He commented on my blog and we got to talking online," Hana says. "His name is Ted, and he's a little 'wake up, sheeple' for my tastes sometimes, but he kept alluding to all this evidence that's pretty similar to what you two are talking about. I haven't heard from him in a while, though, which is weird."

Andy's heart sinks. "It's been about three weeks, hasn't it."

Hana looks up. "You guys know where he is?"

"Remember the interrogation-room suicide we talked about before?" Sam asks hoarsely. "Suspicious circumstances?"

"Not to mention, all of his hard drives were blown to smithereens," Andy adds.

Hana shakes her head incredulously. "Okay," she says. "Okay. I don't know how, but we're gonna get this guy."

* * *

As they walk into work the following morning, Andy's not feeling as optimistic as she was a couple of days ago – they're not progressing as quickly as she knows they need to, and impatience has always been a difficult thing for her to temper – but it _is_ somewhat reassuring to know that they have yet another ally in this fight, one who's as motivated as they are. Equally encouraging is the fact that Oliver assigns her and Dov to desk duty today; her staff sergeant's infinitesimal nod as she looks back at him after studying the board confirms that it's not coincidental.

(Of course, if this ordeal has taught her anything thus far, it's that nothing can be taken as coincidence anymore.)

They're initially busy with phone calls and visitors, but as things begin to lull mid-morning, Dov casually motions to her. "McNally, can you come take a look at this for me?" he requests in a tone that, to anyone else, would likely seem nonchalant.

She rolls her chair over to his side of the desk and glances at the computer screen. "What is it?"

He clicks 'play' on what appears to be interrogation-room surveillance. "So every 24 hours, this footage automatically uploads to a backup server. It takes between three and five minutes, depending on connection speed, and the cameras are down during that time. But it's usually set to upload at 2am, when we're pretty unlikely to have someone in there."

Andy watches a too-familiar recording race by in triple time: Sam speaking with Ted McDonald, Santana slamming McDonald's face into the table, Sam and McDonald speaking again… and is then jarred by the sudden image of McDonald lying there, bloodied and lifeless. She looks at Dov quizzically.

"That day, someone reset the upload time to 6:15pm," he explains in a low voice. "I don't know who, but looking at the time log history, I can tell you that it was done about ten minutes before."

"Right about when the bomb went off," Andy surmises. "Great. Another technological glitch, just what we need."

"Hey, Andy," comes an awkward voice from behind her. "What are you guys looking at?"

In the time it takes Andy to startle, Dov manages to minimize the window and open the main Intranet page. "What's going on, Duncan?" he says evenly.

"Not much, you know? Been a pretty slow day." He shrugs. "Uh, Andy, can I talk to you for a minute?"

"You planning to record me without my knowledge this time?" she shoots back, not looking up.

Duncan flinches imperceptibly. "No. But it's kind of about that, you know?"

Andy rolls her eyes and turns to Dov. "Cover the desk?"

After they find a quiet corner (and Andy makes Duncan turn off his phone in front of her), she looks at him with thinly veiled irritation. "What?"

He begins hesitantly. "I was never… I was never that great at anything when I was a kid. Like, I wasn't horrible at sports, but I wasn't getting picked first or anything like that. And I've never been a school kind of person. But I tried my best, and my mom was okay with it. Then she married Alonso when I was twelve, and he was definitely _not_ okay with it. Nothing I did was good enough for him, so he kept getting me all these 'opportunities' I didn't want and then I didn't do so hot with those either. I hate him, okay? He makes me feel like I'm nothing."

"I don't know, Duncan," Andy retorts. "He seems to be sticking up for you pretty well around here."

Duncan shakes his head. "It's because he doesn't want me to embarrass him. Not 'cause he actually cares. Look, I…" He bites his lip, and damned if it's not hard to avoid feeling sorry for him. "I would deal with whatever from him, as long as my mom's happy. She wasn't for a long time after my dad split, you know? But then I found out about… about this." He holds up his phone so that she can watch him turn it on and move through to select a video.

The view is partially obscured, but Andy can clearly see Santana and the back of his conversation partner; she concludes Duncan recorded this from outside Santana's home office.

"It was just a fling," Santana is saying on the video, his voice tinny but unmistakable. "She needed someone to care, hold her hand, you know how all of that goes. It's fine for a week, but now she's pregnant? This needs to go away. Now."

"Make her sign a confidentiality agreement. Then reinstate her. Give her a job someplace good," the other man suggests. "She'll get the message. Keep your mouth shut or your career is over."

Santana nods, but still appears uneasy. "I don't know that I can trust her even if she signs something. Not exactly the most stable woman, you know?"

"There's your argument, just in case," his confidant responds. "And if the opportunity arises to take care of things further… well, we have some ideas." Both of them rise and shake hands, but before the camera angle shifts abruptly to the carpet and the video cuts out, the second man turns around toward the door.

Andy manages to transmute her gasp into a deep inhale mid-breath. "Duncan," she says coolly, "I'm going to need to borrow your phone for a minute."

As she sends a copy of the video to Hana, Duncan offers quietly, "I have others. You know, he meets with all these people in there. I can't really put anything together about what he's doing, but… I don't know. Maybe you can."

Andy glances up from the screen. "How did you know we were looking into this?"

Duncan swallows thickly. "It's, uh… well, like I said, I got others."

"Others?" Andy looks back through the contents of his albums, and the video she just watched is the only one listed. "Where?"

"On the Cloud," Duncan explains. "They're backed up, secured. If you got something important, you have to keep it safe."

_Something important. _Andy feels her eyes widen involuntarily. "Okay. Duncan, I have to go, but if you can send those to that same number, that would be really, _really_ helpful." She hands him his phone. "Look, I don't know why you're trusting me with this. But you're doing the right thing."

"I know," he says with more confidence than he's exhibited in weeks. "Look, I kinda got dragged into being a cop, but now that I'm here, it's the first thing I've ever really wanted to do well. And I'm trusting you 'cause… it's what I should have done from the beginning."

Her smile might well be the first genuine one she's ever given him. "Thanks."

* * *

Andy heads down to the front desk at a rather fast clip, writing Hana's mobile number on the back of a crumpled receipt from her pocket as she goes. She hands it to Dov and murmurs, "Ted McDonald must have backed his stuff up someplace. Some offsite server. Find it somewhere, and if you have trouble" – she taps the scrap of paper – "call her. But don't tell anyone else."

As soon as she sees his head begin to nod in acknowledgment, she's back up the stairs, headed for the D's office, but stops short as two familiar voices come into earshot.

"Nice to see you as always, Detective," Santana's saying as she eases herself into prime eavesdropping position behind the corner.

"Likewise, Commissioner," Sam responds. "What brings you to 15 today?"

"Oh, just visiting Duncan. He's had a little bit of a rough start around here, but I think he's turning a corner." The slickly false doting in his voice is making Andy want to vomit.

"Great." Andy's not sure if Sam's about to punch the guy in the face or be sick himself. "That's… that's good to hear."

"You know, it's a special thing, Sam," Santana continues. "Fathers and sons. There's really nothing like that relationship, is there?"

Sam makes a noise in the back of his throat that Andy assumes is meant to be both agreeable and noncommittal.

"You know, it's too bad that sometimes things go sour. Your father's got a little time left in Millburn, doesn't he? That must be tough."

_Oh no he didn't._ Andy is biting her lip hard enough to draw blood, fist pressing against her mouth.

"Sure," Sam says slowly. "But you know, that's what we do. Uphold the law. Break it and there are consequences. Right?"

"Oh, of course," Santana responds solicitously. "Of course. And I know you were just a kid at the time, so I'm sure it was very difficult. But you know, in general, it's important to make sure that people who are convicted should actually be serving their sentences. That's why I'll be speaking with the Crown Attorney about reopening some select cases. Taking a closer look. We all need to work together and make sure justice is being served, don't you think?"

"Sure. Sure, of course."

"Yeah." Andy thinks the conversation's over for a moment, but then Santana resumes speaking. "By the way, how's Officer McNally doing? After the explosion?"

_If I wasn't going to throw up before_…

"Fine, sir, thank you for asking," Sam replies. Superficial politeness in his tone aside, Andy can tell he's positively livid.

"Good, good," Santana says with a patronizing chuckle. "You know, it's amazing. She's got some luck."

Andy waits until the conversation concludes and Santana's well clear in the other direction before emerging. Sam's as pale as she's ever seen him, trauma room notwithstanding, and is staring into space as he rhythmically flexes and loosens shaking white-knuckled fists. She approaches him from the side in the hopes that he'll see her from his peripheral vision and not startle; it doesn't work.

"Sorry," she whispers, resting what she hopes is a calming hand on his arm.

He nods once. "You heard?"

"Everything. Sam, you were a kid."

"I was when he went in," Sam says in a monotone. "Had plenty of time to correct myself."

"It wouldn't have mattered," Andy insists. "The reason he's still in there is totally different from why he ended up there in the first place."

"And if they get him a crooked enough lawyer, he'll argue that he wouldn't have been able to kill that guy if he hadn't been incarcerated in the first place. Not to mention, if they subpoena you…" He shakes his head. "I'm done."

"You're not," she contends. "I think we might be able to get ahold of Ted McDonald's files. And we might have some pretty convincing videos of Santana meeting with some of the people we're trying to link him with."

At that moment, her phone vibrates. It's a text from Hana: _Got them all, we're gonna nail him. Working with your boy on getting into Ted's Cloud. Chin up._

She exhales. "Okay, we _definitely_ have videos. And the one I know about for sure is Santana talking to someone about Marlo being pregnant. About blackmailing her into silence so she can keep her job, and 'taking care of' her if need be."

Sam looks up. "Who? Who's he talking to?"

Andy bites her lip. "Sebastian Cho."

* * *

"I'm sorry." It's at least the tenth time Oliver's apologized since they've entered his office. (He's also sworn a blue streak, smacked the desk, and left what's likely to be a permanent mark on the back wall by throwing a paperweight at it.) "I made a mistake, you two. I thought we could trust him."

"Not your fault, man," Sam says yet again, but Oliver shakes his head vigorously.

"I was wrong, I should've known better, and maybe if I weren't stuck up here all day in this _fucking_ office…"

"Oliver!" Andy implores. "It's not your fault. The guy is playing everyone, probably has been for a long time."

Oliver stops pacing; nods after a beat. "Yeah. Yeah, he probably has." He takes a seat. "But it explains why Santana went after you with Gallant when he did."

"It's not stopping there," Sam mutters.

"Yeah, I know," Oliver concedes. "And I don't know why you won't tell me what else he's saying…"

"Because the less you know, the better," Andy interrupts.

Oliver shoots her a look before continuing. "_But_, what I do know is that you two need to get out of here. Let Epstein and me and that lawyer work on things from here for a while. I'll put you both down for vacation time for the rest of the week, and we'll talk. Keep each other updated. Anyone asks, I'll tell them you were both having a lot of residual stress from the bombing and needed to take some time."

After silently conferring, they nod. "Okay," Sam says. "Just you three, though. I know we've had some help along the way from different people, but obviously we need to keep this a pretty tight circle."

"Believe me, I'm not inviting anyone else into this," Oliver says grimly. "Go. Seriously, go somewhere. The beach, the mountains… just get away from this."

(What could potentially happen if they don't remains unsaid. Andy's not sure if that's better or worse.)

Enough of her essentials are at Sam's place that they only need to make one stop. After throwing some things into a duffle, they head out to the highway – after a thorough check of the interior and exterior of the truck for bugs and bombs that Andy would normally find comical in its overkill.

"He wouldn't be that stupid anyway," Sam remarks as he pulls onto the highway. "The car-bomb guy is dead, he wouldn't want the attention it would bring to take us out like that."

(Still, they double back and change routes a few times until they're reasonably convinced no one is following them. Andy's convinced the GPS lady is starting to sound exasperated.)

"Where are we going, anyway?" she asks once they've been on the road for nearly two hours.

"Ever been to New York?"

"City? No," she says.

"State," Sam clarifies. "Finger Lakes are supposed to be nice, thought we could go relax."

Andy snorts. "Because that's going to happen."

"Hey, you never know." Sam shrugs. "If nothing else, it's pretty well out of the way."

"True." Andy looks up at him. "Hey, I know this sucks. A lot. But if there's anything else I can do…"

"You've done plenty," he assures her. "You're here, right?"

"Mmm," she agrees, her gaze drifting toward the window as they slip into silence.

"Actually," Sam says after about fifteen minutes, "there _is_ something you can do for me."

"What?" she asks, turning to face him.

He glances over at her, their eyes locking. "Marry me."


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: I was originally going to post the rest of the story as one chapter, but split it up when I realized how long it was getting. Warning: this part is pretty much pure fluff, because at this point in the story, Sam and Andy deserve it and so do I. Also, one of the people they encounter in this chapter might seem over the top, but I ask you to consider that Sam is a self-described city boy, and as such he's probably not accustomed to strangers being, well, nice. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

* * *

After ten minutes, Andy breaks the silence in the truck. "You're serious?"

"Yup," Sam answers with calm certainty. "Just like I was the last seventeen times you asked." A quick glance at the clock reveals that they've now been having this broken-record conversation for exactly one hour.

(It's more or less what he expected would happen; for someone whose typical MO is 'act first, apologize later,' when McNally decides she's going to overanalyze something, she damn well commits.

Like innumerable other traits of hers, he loves and is driven insane by it in equal measure.)

"I just want to make sure," she says, a note of defense creeping into her voice. "Things are a little crazy, I don't think making a huge decision all spur-of-the-moment is the best idea."

"Not spur-of-the-moment," Sam says, turning off the main road into a public lot. He slows down to pull into a space; kills the ignition. "So that's a no."

"No," she replies quickly, her eyes widening in panic almost immediately. "I mean, no, that's _not _a no, not no as in…"

"Got it," he interrupts. He turns on the light in the cab, nudges her chin toward him with one hand. "Take your time with it," he says gently. "All right?"

He can practically see the wheels turning in her head – rather, spinning furiously to catch up with her rapid-fire thought process. "It's just… before we left, you said something about my maybe getting a subpoena. If they reopen Jay's case."

_Nothing gets past this one_. How he wishes some things would. "I did, yeah."

"You know…" She hesitates. "You know that spousal privilege only covers communications made during the marriage. Right?"

"Yeah," he says. "I know."

"So if we did, and then they called me…"

"You'd still have to testify," he finishes her sentence. "I know, McNally. But we don't know what else is going to happen with all of this. How long it's going to go on. And I already dragged you into enough as it – "

"Bullshit," she retorts. "Sam, we're in this together and you know it. This job, what we're trying to prove right now, _us_ – it's never been easy, or neat, and I don't _care_. Whatever happens, there's no going back." She glares at him.

"And let me guess," he says carefully. "You don't want to go back."

"Nope," she confirms, still glaring. "Not gonna happen. You're stuck with me, Swarek."

"Okay. Good." He cocks an eyebrow. "One more question."

She mirrors his expression with a raised brow of her own. "Mm-hmm?"

"Can you stop saying nice things with that look on your face? It's a little confusing."

"What look?"

"The one that says you're gonna kill me in my sleep."

At that, she cracks a smile. "Let's just wait on this, okay? We don't even know where we're staying." She opens the passenger side door.

Climbing out of the cab himself, Sam jerks a thumb behind him toward the main road. "There's an inn over there. Figured we could try that. There's a couple other places we passed a few blocks up if that doesn't work."

(Wherever they end up staying, he wouldn't mind figuring it out sooner rather than later. He's got one more thing up his sleeve.)

The place still smells like fresh-baked cookies at 8pm, and the front desk clerk, the aptly named Ernest, informs them cheerily that he's got a suite left for tonight. "It's _really _nice," he assures them with a sincerity Sam's never before seen or believed. "Lake view will give you gorgeous sunsets."

"Oh, I'm… I'm sure," Andy agrees politely.

"Can't go wrong with it, I promise. Plus, it has a fireplace…"

"A fireplace, great," Andy says, the enthusiasm in her voice tinged with impatience.

Oblivious, Ernest continues his spiel. "… A king-size bed, and a double shower."

At that, Sam feels his head snap up of its own volition. "You guys take Visa?" he asks, brandishing a card between his fingers. Ernest is thrilled to oblige; as he's processing the bill with his back to them, Sam feels Andy's elbow in his ribs.

"What?" he hisses. "He would've kept going till he got to the flavor of the pillow mints."

"Well, you picked an interesting moment to intervene," she mutters back. "You're gonna traumatize the poor guy with those mental images."

"Who, Ernest?" Sam tosses his head in the clerk's direction. "He doesn't care. Probably lives to sell a room to a couple in need of a romantic getaway. Listen, he's _humming_."

(It's not an exaggeration.)

"Whatever. That's not your credit card," Andy whispers.

"It's prepaid," he replies in a low voice. "Picked it up last week, I had a feeling there might be a situation where I didn't want someone tracking me by my credit use. No idea why."

"Okay! We're all set," Ernest says, turning back around with their room keys and an enormous smile. "Have a wonderful stay."

* * *

Their room is on the second floor, and Sam has no sooner crossed the threshold than Andy is dropping her bag on the ground and diving into the bathroom. "Thank God, I've had to pee since the border," comes her muffled voice from behind the closed door.

"You had two hours to say something," Sam can't help remarking, placing his own bag down and reaching for his wallet. If he remembers correctly, what he's looking for should be right… _there_. He pulls out the small cream-colored envelope, tucked safely in front of his cash, and places it atop the pillow on the left side of the bed.

"Well, I didn't know how much longer it was going to be, and if it was only another few minutes, it would've been stupid to stop…" Andy's voice trails off, having noted the stationery. She walks over and picks it up. "What's this? Were they out of pillow mints?"

He shrugs, absently flipping through a nature-photography book on the side table. "Looks like it."

_Here it comes_. He's fairly sure he knows how this, too, is going to go; can't say he's not amused at the likely prospect.

First, the nervous laugh. "Brookbell Family Jewelers. A hand-written receipt? What, do they have a full-time calligrapher on staff to fill people in on the 14-day return policy?"

"No return policy, McNally," he says with a grin, keeping his eyes focused on an image of a sunlit forest. "Start at the top and work your way down."

"Well…" A little less wisecracking now. "You know, maybe we should've gone to a campground tonight. It would've made sense to save _something_ for your legal fund, if you need one."

"Are you looking at the…" Sam rolls his eyes and slams the book shut. "That's not what I meant when I said to work your way down, McNally. The date. Look at the date."

She looks – and then keeps looking. She stares at it for what seems like so long that Sam gets up and walks over to her, waving a hand in front of her eyes.

"That was two days after we went to Millburn," she says softly, her gaze shifting to him. "You've been planning this since then?"

He smiles wryly. "Whatever plans I may or may not have had didn't involve being on the run from a corrupt police commissioner who's out to ruin my life."

"Hey, now," she interrupts. "_Our_ lives."

"Touché. Actually, that's, uh… that's kind of the point," he says with a shrug. "Nothing quite kills a honeymoon phase like Santana, and we're both still here."

"So, the spousal privilege thing…"

"Came to mind," he admits. "But face it, McNally. You and me? This was inevitable from day one."

"Day one? Really?" She tilts her head, shooting him a skeptical squint.

"All right, day two," he amends. "Somewhere between picking all the gravel out of my elbows and getting Emily on a bus…"

"Okay," she interrupts. He's expecting more, but she just looks at him, biting her lip to stifle her grin.

"So I'm clear, that's a yes?"

"Sure," she says nonchalantly. "Let's do it."

"Oh yeah? Let's do it, huh?" he rejoins, reaching into the envelope for the tiny velvet drawstring pouch he knows is in there. "What are you thinking, two years? Reserve some really swanky venue with a giant wait list and ice sculptures? Wear a designer gown and I can finally see whatever you were going to wear to the commissioner's gala underneath your dress?"

"Please, like I'd make you wait two years for that," she snorts, her left hand in his. "That would be cruel. Maybe six months. I've always liked autumn. You know, the foliage."

"Foliage is nice," he agrees, mock-serious as he seamlessly slides diamond and white gold onto her third finger. "But it's kind of cliché for weddings at this point. Isn't it? We go with three months, we get summer, do something on the beach…"

"Speaking of clichés. And summer's too hot." She's keeping up with him every step of the way, even if her eyes are now transfixed on the ring. "Spring actually sounds perfect. New beginnings and all that."

"Yeah, sure," he nods. "You got plans tomorrow? It'll still be spring then."

"I actually _do_ have plans tomorrow, sorry," she retorts jokingly.

"Like what?" he teases, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her close. "Lake views? Fireplace?"

"Hell, no," she smirks, her mouth just shy of his. "Double shower."


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Very sorry for the delay with this final chapter, and thank you so much for sticking with this all the way through and for all your lovely feedback. Just to clear up a quick note from a couple reviews: the idea of spousal privilege would never have entered Sam's head as a way to protect himself. He knows (as well as we all do) that Andy would absolutely lie for him if it ever came down to it, and so in his mind (or my interpretation thereof), it would be Sam's way of protecting _her_.

I hope this wraps everything up thoroughly; it's been really fun and challenging writing this story, and it's great as always to know you're reading and enjoying. Hopefully you enjoy this last part as well; thanks again!

Disclaimer (which holds for this and every chapter in this story): I don't own Rookie Blue. This is for fun and entertainment.

* * *

Oliver could kick himself for misreading Sebastian Cho. (Instead, he's chosen to punch things – which has resulted in several strange looks, a couple of bruises on the outer edge of his right hand, and one well-meaning but utterly unhelpful suggestion from Celery that he look into anger management.) For two days, he's been trying – and failing – to put it behind him, as he knows plenty well that ruminating won't move things forward.

Albatross or not, though, he's made some progress; he's put Cho on a special assignment from his own personal version of vindictive hell, decrypting files from identity-theft cold cases in what's left of the evidence room. Ironically, he cites the commissioner's own 'leave no stone unturned' crusade in rationalizing the task. Cho's got eyes on him all day now, and Oliver casually ensured that the computer he's using is in full view of a surveillance camera – so he's reasonably confident that Cho won't be mired in any underhanded agenda, at least on work time. Maybe he'll have Epstein take over Cho's usual responsibilities, he muses; the kid's been a clandestine computer genius all this time.

(Of course, Epstein's not really a kid anymore. For better or worse, none of his rookies are.)

He's interrupted by a knock at his office door, where – lo and behold – Dov is standing, an intent look on his face. Oliver motions him in. "Your ears must be burning."

"What?" Epstein asks, somewhat perplexed as he shuts the door behind him.

"I was just thinking about you. What's up?"

Epstein walks around to Oliver's side of the desk and motions to the computer. "You mind if I…?"

Oliver holds his hands up. "Knock yourself out."

Within a minute, he's got a webcam window up, through which a woman with tangled auburn curls is looking intently at him. "Which one of you is which?" she inquires, pushing her plastic-framed glasses up on her narrow nose.

"I'm Dov," Epstein says, pointing to himself, "and this is Oliver."

"Hana Keyworth," she says briskly. "Nice to see you. Good news – I've got them."

"Got what?" Oliver asks, looking between the screen and Epstein whiplash-fast.

"Ted McDonald's files," she clarifies. "I figured out the password to his backup after reading over some weird conversation we had a few months ago. I'm saving my own copy someplace safe and sending everything to you right now. Hope you guys are ready for a little turmoil over there."

"It's all true," Oliver murmurs. Not that he had doubted his friends' instincts (and at the end of the day, whatever color his shirt is, that's what they are; his friends), but the part of him that has never lost faith in the good of others really didn't want to believe that this was possible.

He suspects it's going to be a hard pill for a lot of people around here to swallow.

"Everything he said and more," Hana confirms. "There are emails, records of cash transactions – basically, the NAC gang _is _running Armour North, and they're trafficking drugs out of a bunch of places they're supposed to be running security for. Santana, the Crown Attorney, and all the city council members who are on the board with them are fully aware, and getting paid off to look the other way. And from what you guys have told me and what I have, I can identify at least two people working for TPS who are involved with the gang."

"Cho?" Oliver asks.

Hana nods. "Yeah, his name started showing up in files about two years back. And also…" She looks down and wrinkles her nose. "You guys know a Bradley?"

"Barry Bradley," Epstein responds automatically. "The union rep Andy and Swarek both had. I can't see him working for the mob, though; he probably can't count past ten with his shoes on."

"Unless it's an act," Oliver points out.

On the screen, Hana shakes her head. "It's not. But his father has a bit of a gambling problem, and around a year ago, he lost big on a bet and didn't pay up. So Barry stepped in, or was possibly recruited, to keep his father's kneecaps intact. Every time he's represented somebody, they've done something to piss off the powers that be."

Oliver sighs. "Well, I don't think the powers _will_ be. Not for much longer, anyway."

"There's one more thing you both need to see before we go any further," Epstein says, clicking around a few more times. "When they rebooted the security cameras in the interrogation room, our double-agent buddy Cho forgot, or never knew, that the auxiliary cameras' clocks are two minutes behind. You know, in case there are any discrepancies during backups. They go to a different server, which is why it took me a while to find."

Oliver's eyes widen. "Are you serious?" He wonders if two minutes is enough to prove what they need to.

"Take a look," Epstein suggests, pressing 'play' and walking back around to the front of Oliver's desk. "If you don't mind, though, I'd rather not watch this again."

It turns out that two minutes is _exactly_ enough; the auxiliary camera is in the back, but they have a front-row seat to the horror show nonetheless. Oliver is unnerved by Santana's brutality, saddened that the cuffed and relatively defenseless McDonald never stood a chance – and thoroughly enraged that for years, this charlatan has been the face of the organization to which he's dedicated his life.

"Well, if we didn't have him before, we sure as hell do now," Hana remarks, looking more than a bit nauseated herself. Epstein's begun walking back around the desk to rejoin the conversation.

"Yep," Oliver agrees bleakly. "So, uh…" He forcefully blows out a puff of air. "What do we do now? What's the next step?"

"I've got everything together here," Hana says, flipping through a file. "I'm going to organize it and leak it to some friends in the media. Not to drop names, but come tomorrow morning, this is going to hit the fan in a big way. You might want to get Sam and Andy back here. Where are they, anyway?"

"I don't know," Oliver admits. "Which is probably for the best."

"I ran a search on them last night," Dov adds. "No credit cards used and no license-plate sightings in two days. They could be anywhere."

"As long as one of them picks up the phone sometime today, we'll be okay," Hana comments. "I've gotta go. Call me if you guys need anything."

"Yeah, thanks, Hana," Oliver says. "And be careful – not like you didn't know, but you're playing with fire here."

"Don't worry about me," she says with a wry grin. "I'm dating an Army lieutenant. I'll have my own personal henchmen until all this is done."

Oliver raises an eyebrow. "Interesting match there."

Hana shrugs. "Opposites attract. We'll talk later."

After they close the connection, Oliver turns to the younger man. "So now we wait."

"Now we wait," Epstein concurs. He's looking as green as Hana was a minute ago.

"You okay? Too late to back out now."

"No, I know it is. I'm fine," Epstein assures him. "I'm going to get back to the desk, but first I think I'm gonna go throw up. Just… just this one time."

"Pull it together," Oliver says in what he hopes is a firm but supportive tone. "This'll be over soon."

After Epstein leaves, Oliver realizes he doesn't know which one of them he was addressing.

* * *

"We need to do this more often," Andy says with a contented sigh, flopping into one of the overstuffed chairs in the sitting area.

"Have our careers and lives threatened by someone with colossal power?" Sam replies sarcastically, raising the elegant stemware in his hand. "Cheers to that."

Andy laughs. "That part, no. But this part… yeah. The fireplace is growing on me."

"I think you're drunk, McNally," he observes, feeling more than a little silly himself.

She looks critically at her own glass, which she's just topped off with more Riesling. "You bring me to a place in the middle of nowhere that calls itself wine country, what else am I supposed to do?"

"I don't know," he muses. "Lose that stupid robe, for one."

"No!" she protests. "Sam, it's _fluffy_."

"You look like a polar bear."

"You should put yours on!"

"A drunk polar bear. And no." He stands up, setting his glass down on the coffee table, and approaching her chair. "I think if you lose the robe, I can make it worth your while."

"Hmm," she pretends to deliberate. "You're going to have to try _really_ hard. Because this thing is soft. Would they bill us if I stole it?"

"Yes, they –" Sam is cut off by the sound of his mobile ringing. It takes him a minute to find it – he hasn't really used it since their arrival – and a glance at the screen tells him it's Oliver.

By the time he looks up to tell Andy, she's already at his side, the wine seemingly having evaporated from her system. "Let it go," she instructs. "Call his office from the burner phone."

She digs out the prepaid cell they purchased at a big-box store on their way out here; dials Oliver's office number and puts it on speaker.

His voice fills the room a ring and a half later. "Oliver Shaw."

"It's us," Andy says.

"You need to head back," Oliver replies, clearly not wasting any time. "It's gonna break tomorrow."

"We were right?" Sam asks.

"You already know that. Call me when you're nearby."

Andy hangs up and puts the phone down; she and Sam look at each other for a long moment. "It's almost one now," she says. "With traffic, it'll take four hours. Maybe a little bit longer."

Sam nods. "We shouldn't drive yet, though. The wine and everything, in all seriousness. We should wait an hour."

"Maybe two," Andy agrees. Her face looks somber enough, but Sam can't help noticing she's absently loosening the belt on her robe.

* * *

"You think Oliver's still at the barn?" Sam asks a few minutes after they drive back into the city limits. It's nearly eight; they underestimated traffic, not to mention each other.

Andy shrugs. "Should I call him and see?" She reaches for her phone.

"Nah, wait a little bit." Sam waves her off. "I wouldn't mind stopping by the house, grabbing something to eat."

"Do you have anything, even?" Andy wonders.

"There's probably something in the freezer," he thinks aloud. "You know, there's that lasagna I made last –"

"Sam," Andy says urgently, putting a hand on his knee. They're still a block away, but he can see it.

There's a car parked in front of his house.

"Probably just the neighbors having people over," he says, aware that his voice is shaking a little.

"There are no other cars parked on the street," Andy points out, and that's all it takes for Sam to continue past the house at full speed. Sure enough, they barely make it a block before the parked car's lights come on, and it pulls out behind them.

Andy pulls out her phone with trembling hands. "Oliver," she says after a moment. "Thank God you're still there. We were just about to stop at Sam's, and we're being followed."

There's a pause, during which Sam thanks his own deities of choice for the newly filled gas tank.

"Okay. Thanks, Oliver. We'll be right there." Andy hangs up and turns to him. "He said to go straight to 15. The sally port will be open and guarded, we can drive right in."

Sam nods, eyes firmly on the road. He spots a yellow traffic light ahead, with the 'don't walk' symbol flashing; he speeds up, deftly changes lanes around a minivan, and passes through the intersection. He's too focused to check the rearview, or to think too much about the squeal of tires coming from behind them. "They still there, McNally?"

She glances back and inhales sharply. "No. They must've run the red light."

"No? How are they not there if they ran the light?" Sam retorts, louder than he'd like.

"Because they got T-boned in the intersection," she says quickly. "Just go!"

True to his word, Oliver has the sally port open and available, with Diaz and Epstein visible just inside. They pull in and exit the cab.

"You guys all right?" Diaz calls as he and Epstein double back behind them, trailing them inside.

"Yeah, we lost them," Sam confirms. "Didn't go so well for them, though. 27's about to get a call for an MVA."

Once they're safely inside, the four of them congregate in the hallway. "Hana sent everything to the media, but we don't think Santana knows anything yet," Epstein begins.

"Well, obviously he knows something," Andy responds, her voice unsteady. "I don't know who was following us, but I doubt they got the idea on their own."'

"You know?" Sam asks Diaz, letting his hand briefly rest on the small of Andy's back.

Diaz nods, a look of utter disdain on his face. "Traci, too. I knew McDonald was clean when I searched him, I just didn't think it could be that bad."

"Come in here," Epstein suggests, motioning to the empty office behind him. "You need to see this."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Andy's white as a sheet and Sam's certain he doesn't look much better. "As if the bribery, corruption, and threatening we knew about weren't enough," he says slowly, eyes on the desk, "let's go ahead and tack on murder."

"Given everyone who's involved in all of this, they'll have to find someone new to prosecute him," Epstein points out.

The doorknob turns, leading a collective bristle from the four of them; Andy, standing closest to the laptop on the desk, slams it shut. The atmosphere in the small room relaxes just as quickly as Nash comes through the door.

"Are you guys okay?" she asks Sam and Andy, clasping her friend's shoulder. "How long have you been working on this? I had no idea. No one did – or does."

"A few weeks," Andy tells her. "Things were starting to get crazy, so we took a couple of days away from all of this. Oliver's orders. It was a good call."

Nash nods. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because we didn't want anyone else getting followed by God knows who," Sam says. "Or worse."

"Let's go see Oliver," Andy suggests. "He doesn't know we're here yet, right? I hope he's not worried."

"We told him we were planning on showing you everything once you got here," Diaz explains as they file out of the office. Upon reaching the sparsely populated bullpen, they can see Jarvis and two other suit-clad men in Oliver's office, and come to a stop.

"We don't know anything about Jarvis," Andy points out in a low voice. "He could be just as corrupt as the rest of them."

"Then he'll go down with the rest of them," Sam mutters. "Come on."

"You two go ahead," Epstein suggests tightly, craning his neck as he attempts to see down the hallway to their left. "Looks like someone just called Duncan over there, and if I had to guess…"

"Oh, shit," Andy whispers. "Just go, guys, okay? Dov, call Hana. See if she can get over here."

"We should go upstairs," Sam says, nudging her side gently.

"No," Andy rejoins, shaking her head. "We should hear what he's saying."

"Andy…"

"What's he gonna do, Sam? Shoot us in the middle of the station?"

He sighs. "Then I'll go eavesdrop. You go upstairs, or go with Nash to…" The look she shoots him is so incredulous and intimidating, Sam actually takes half a step back. "Okay. Let's go."

They can hear the vitriol in Santana's hushed voice before his words are clear. "You've always been lazy. Sloppy. _Useless_. Every time I've done something to keep you from embarrassing your mother and me, you screw it up."

"Don't bring her into this…" Duncan protests somewhat weakly.

"Or what? You're on thin ice here, and I'm the only reason you got your first shot at it, let alone your second. And instead of being grateful for the opportunity, keeping your head down and learning the job, you continue to require someone to bail you out. And I'm more than tired of compromising my reputation for you."

There's a pause before Duncan speaks – in the same rather timid voice they've never heard him use outside a conversation with Santana. "I… I've been doing good the last couple weeks. That's what my TO said, and Sergeant Shaw…"

"Then why," Santana snaps, am I getting a call from a reporter about a video of me in my home office?"

"I don't… I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, really?" Santana responds archly. "Let's take a look at who it possibly could have been, shall we? The only people with that kind of access are you, your mother, and the housekeeper. Your mother was out of town the week this video was allegedly shot, and Nelly can barely work a landline phone – which leaves you, and your obsession with taking photos and videos on the smartphone that I paid for. So I'm only going to say this once: if I choose to use my space within the house to entertain a friend, Duncan, it's really nobody's business but mine. Certainly not the media. And it's been ingrained into you for _years_ that the media would love nothing more than a scandal involving higher-ups in the police department. They'll create something out of nothing to sell a story. If I have to contend with any of that, you'll regret it, I assure you."

Sam feels Andy tense beside him as one of the pair begins walking away, footsteps growing heavier in their direction – but then Duncan's voice rings out from behind the corner. "But it's not nothing."

A tiny screeching noise follows – presumably Santana's shoes doing a quick about-face on the linoleum. "What did you say to me?"

"It's not nothing," Duncan repeats, calm and composed now. "And they weren't friends. All those guys in there, they run with the NAC gang. I looked at the profiles we have here, and every one of them is associated with the mob. So if they _were_ your friends, then you got bigger problems than the media."

"You listen to me…" Santana warns.

"No, I'm _done_ listening to you!" Duncan exclaims, gaining both volume and anger. "You cheated on my mother, got an officer _pregnant_, and gave her a promotion for keeping her mouth shut! You paid a criminal to lie about Detective Swarek so he would stop looking into all the shit you did, and then you made up something about reopening his father's case when you _knew_ it would never happen."

At this, Sam and Andy look at one another with consternation.

"It's all on video, Alonso, and it's never going away," Duncan continues in a biting tone. "That's the thing with social media they're always talking about, right? Once it's out there, you can't take it back. Just a matter of time until everyone knows what you did."

"I don't know who you think you are," Santana begins viciously, "but I…"

"_You_, Commissioner, are going to need to take a walk with us." Sam startles, and he and Andy turn to see Oliver, Inspector Jarvis, and his associates standing behind them. The look with which Jarvis is fixing Santana is teeming with disdain.

Santana blanches, but quickly draws himself up. "Inspector, you know as well as most that being in a prominent position puts one at risk for this kind of action…"

"I just got a call from a detective at 27," Jarvis interrupts. "There was an accident about an hour ago. The driver was pronounced at the scene, but amazingly, the passenger was conscious – and told our guys that you had asked them to park in front of a specific house, wait until a specific vehicle pulled up, and take care of whoever was inside." At this, he turns to Sam and Andy. "I see you two are all right?"

"Yes, sir," Andy answers too quickly, all sharp nod and clenched jaw. Sam offers his own nonverbal affirmation, trying and failing to unhear what Jarvis has just said.

"We've read some interesting things tonight, Commissioner," Jarvis continues, his attention refocused on Santana. "And seen some interesting footage too. Particularly from the interrogation rooms."

Time seems to stand still for an agonizingly slow moment – and then Sam sees it settle. Oliver's expression shifts into one of grave disappointment with a healthy side of fury; Andy's fixing a laser-beam glare that's likely to incinerate from the inside out; Duncan is looking from one face to the next with uncertainty; and Santana himself has finally been rendered silent.

"We've got a busy night ahead of us," Jarvis announces. "Get some rest, 15, if you can. Shaw, Swarek, McNally – I'll need you all first thing in the morning."

His associates walk Santana out of the station – they don't cuff him, which Sam considers anticlimactic on some base level, but he recognizes that until the story officially breaks and whoever's left at the top has a chance to gain some control over things, it's asking for chaos to lead the commissioner through a division with his hands fixed behind his back.

"_He_ didn't look happy," comes a sharp voice from behind them. Sam turns to see Hana, her diminutive figure somewhat dwarfed by a stoic-looking guy in camouflage who can only be described as hulking. It's entirely possible Epstein is behind them.

Sam snorts. "You do."

"Yeah, justice being served always makes me a little bit smug." Hana grins briefly before sobering. "You guys okay? Dov told us what happened."

Andy offers the same kneejerk response she provided to Jarvis; Sam nods.

"Tom and his roommates rent a house in Leaside," she says, motioning to the living mountain beside her. "There's an upstairs room, vacant and furnished. You'd be safe there for as long as you need."

"Thanks," Sam replies doubtfully with a glance at Andy, "but…"

"Just want to go home," she finishes.

Oliver steps forward. "Leave the truck tonight. Someone working overnight can drive you, we can give you a protective detail until the morning."

"I don't think anything else is going to happen, though," Epstein adds, "for whatever it's worth."

Sam nods, the cumulative exhaustion of the past few weeks smacking into him all at once. "Not much left to happen that hasn't already."

* * *

It's a bit surreal, riding in the back of a cruiser. (Not like he hasn't done it before, but to say the circumstances were different would be a tremendous understatement.) While searching through the duffle for his toothbrush, Sam notes with mild amusement that beneath their belongings lies a tight roll of plush white terrycloth. He turns to Andy, garment in hand. "You know they already charged the credit card for this."

Andy, already in pajamas, is sitting stock still on the bed. She doesn't turn around or respond.

"Okay," he mutters, heading to the bathroom. By the time he returns, she's under the covers, lights out. He slips in beneath the duvet and waits.

It doesn't take long before she turns from her side onto her back. "Sam." Her voice breaks; she's not going to say anything else and she doesn't have to.

"I know," he murmurs, reaching for her and narrowly avoiding a blow across the face from an errant and desperate arm. "I know."

(It occurs to him strangely as he pulls her against his chest that she probably doesn't even realize how much this is helping him. It's not his style, this kind of vulnerability, and this situation is difficult enough without stepping well beyond the bounds of his normal coping mechanisms.

So he'll be unflappable for the both of them until she can wrap her head around all of this, and she'll let herself feel what he can't, or maybe won't, just yet. It's a peculiar divide-and-conquer, and perhaps not the standard definition of teamwork – but if he's honest with himself, things started to look up for them as a pair the moment they stopped trying to define themselves and each other.)

He's not sure how much time elapses before she stops shuddering, but eventually she raises her head to meet his eyes. "We shouldn't have come back until it was done. Completely done."

"Internal Affairs was going to want to talk to us as soon as possible," he points out. "And there's no way anyone thought Santana would have taken things that far, or we would've just kept hiding out."

"You know what's awful?" She scoffs, the sound truncated by a harsh sob. "I'm actually thinking that he _helped_ us by doing that, because now the mob ties _really _couldn't be clearer. Who thinks that? God, what is wrong with…"

"Shh." He presses his lips to her forehead. "I thought the same thing, to be honest. Doesn't mean I'm happy about it, but… let's just be glad it backfired."

She lets out a shaky laugh. "Let's be glad you're an excellent driver."

"Told you so." He shrugs, looking at her steadily with a growing smirk until she laughs for real.

"Is this going to be your excuse every time I ask to drive again?"

"That's a pretty good suggestion, thanks." He grins as she swats lightly at him. "I love you. You know that?"

"I'd be pretty pissed if after this, you suddenly decided you didn't." She raises a teasing eyebrow before nestling against him once more. "I love you too."

"That's good." He absently strokes her bicep. "I mean, more for you, really, since you're stuck with me."

"Only in the state of New York." She's beginning to sound drowsy now.

"Pretty sure it doesn't work that way," he says, stifling a yawn himself. As he drifts off, he thinks that whatever future challenges await them, they're more or less experts in 'for better or worse'.

* * *

By sunrise, their discoveries are ubiquitous: all over the early news shows, Internet sites, and dominating several sections of Andy's morning paper. Sam isn't entirely certain how he feels about the videos being released – particularly the one plastered with warnings of graphic content – but it's pretty clear from civilian interviews and comments that even if Santana managed to escape prosecution, the court of public opinion would be waiting with grim anticipation and countless heavy objects to throw at him.

Oliver picks them up a little after seven. "Santana's in custody," he says by way of greeting. "So are Cho and Bradley, and all the NAC gang members they named. The two of them will probably get some kind of deal, but I doubt they'll avoid jail time altogether – and they'll never serve again, that's for sure."

"And Santana?" Sam asks.

"Remanded without bail," Oliver responds. "I'd be surprised if he leaves prison in his lifetime. The acting Crown Attorney on this is going to be merciless."

"Yeah, well, can't say he doesn't deserve it," Andy says with a nonchalant shrug.

Oliver glances at her in the rearview and smirks. "I'll channel my eldest daughter and say sorry I'm not sorry."

Jarvis is already waiting in the staff sergeant's office when they arrive. It's early enough that the bullpen is mostly empty – the overnight shift is still straggling back, while the day team has yet to arrive in great numbers – but the few who are present offer them glances of respect and admiration as they pass through.

"Word spreads fast," Oliver remarks quietly, holding his office door open for the two of them. As he prepares to walk in himself, Epstein, then Hana dart in past him. Jarvis is standing along the far wall of the room, and the five of them arrange themselves in what chairs are available, with Sam standing beside a seated Andy and Oliver awkwardly perched on the edge of his desk.

Sam leans across Andy to address Hana as the room settles. "Nice op-ed this morning."

Hana grins. "My first real byline. Not too shabby, huh?" They turn their attention to the inspector as he clears his throat.

"I'm still trying to process this," Jarvis opens; his suit is neatly pressed, but it's doubtful he's slept a wink. "This division has, quite frankly, been a thorn in my side. And yet, one of your detectives manages to bring down a corrupt commissioner, two dirty cops, four city councilors, the Crown Attorney, _and_ a handful of high-level members of the Irish mob, who are all singing like birds and pointing fingers at one another – with help from two officers, a staff sergeant who'd rather be walking a beat, and a private human rights lawyer."

The five in question collectively seem to hold their breath.

"I have to tell you, Shaw. The leadership in this place is…" He turns to Oliver, who appears to be bracing himself. "Outstanding."

Oliver actually laughs. "Not what I was expecting to hear."

"Well, this city is in your debt," Jarvis assures him. "And I'm sorry if this disappoints you, but yes, it means you'll be keeping the white shirt."

Oliver glances down at his ironed collar. "That's okay. I think it's growing on me."

Jarvis smirks. "Well, I'm more than happy to say I told you so. It's been a very long night, as I'm sure you can imagine. Officers, we'll be taking your official statements this afternoon, but in the meantime, do you have any questions for me?"

"Do we have to worry about retaliation?" Andy asks, leaning forward. "From the NAC gang or anyone else?"

Jarvis shakes his head. "The acting Crown Attorney struck a deal with Nathaniel Gallant late last night – no additional charges in exchange for testimony against Santana. Steve Peck has spoken to two confidential informants, who confirmed independent of one another that the arrests have left the NAC gang fractured. They're more concerned with fighting each other for power than going after any of you."

"Yeah, but what if the arrests don't stick?" Dov queries.

"They will," Jarvis says firmly. "Santana, the Crown Attorney, and the city councilors are all desperate to get their sentences reduced. They've already implicated each and every one of them."

Silence fills the room, until Sam closes his eyes, placing a hand on the back of Andy's chair. "My father is serving a sentence in Millburn. At one point, Santana said something…"

"About looking into his case to have him released?" Jarvis finishes. "Yeah. Visitor log at Millburn has Bradley going down there to talk to him five days ago."

_Now or never_. "Is there anything to that?"

"He's got nothing," Jarvis tells him. "Whatever you said or didn't say as a minor is irrelevant to why he's still incarcerated, and no one would touch it even if it were. Santana was trying to scare you. He went digging, saw all the domestic violence charges, and put it together."

Sam sighs. "He was bluffing."

"Yes." Jarvis nods once. "And so you're aware, Detective, when your father does get released, if he's stupid and lucky enough to find someone with a megaphone who will listen to him… he can try all he wants to drag your name through the mud. But he'll fail."

"We've got your back, Sam," Oliver adds.

Sam smiles tightly as he looks around the room, wondering if it's always been this easy to breathe, or if the last two decades actually made him forget how.

"If that's all," Jarvis says, "I've got some things to take care of downtown. Superintendent Brooks and I will be back at three to speak with each of you about this formally."

"I'll walk out with you," Hana says, getting to her feet. "I'm doing a couple interviews for news stations this week, and was hoping we could find a time to sit down and talk about TPS's plan for dealing with corruption and transparency moving forward."

"We'll have to schedule that later on," Jarvis is saying as they exit; their polite negotiations are audible as they continue out past the office.

"I guess Jarvis has a new thorn in his side," Andy says with a smirk.

Oliver smiles, looking at the clock. "It's eight o'clock. McNally, Epstein, go get changed; parade waits for no man. Except me."

* * *

Sam isn't sure why, but he finds himself waiting outside the women's locker room until Andy emerges. Once they walk into the parade room, though, he realizes it was to trust his gut; upon seeing them, the staff breaks into raucous applause.

"Thanks, thanks," he says, waving both hands in a motion to quiet them down. "Come on, enough."

Once everyone settles down and focuses, Oliver begins to speak. "All right, 15. It's possible you're living under a rock and you haven't noticed, but thanks to the fine work of a few of our own, Toronto Police Services is currently undergoing some changes at the top. A little bit of a facelift. I'm not sure yet if that means anything will change for us, but when I know, you'll know. In the meantime, this is what we've got going on."

As he reviews the day's agenda, Sam feels warm breath against his ear. "So you're a hero, a crusader for truth, _and_ a plastic surgeon? I just keep getting luckier."

Sam looks at Andy quizzically. "Plastic surgeon, what are you…"

She shrugs, a mischievous grin on her face. "Well, Oliver said you gave the place a facelift, so…"

He rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "That's my kind of joke, McNally."

"What's yours is mine now, right?" She bats her eyes at him exaggeratedly.

"Swarek and McNally, if you're done having your own private conversation back there, could you come up front for our last matter of business today?" Oliver's voice leads them to jump slightly apart.

"You got it boss," Sam manages to say, following Andy past the tables to where Oliver is standing.

"We got a little problem here," Oliver announces.

Andy wrinkles her nose. "Problem? What problem?"

"Well…" Oliver begins slowly, "what else do you call it when you sneak off and get married without telling anyone? Nash? Price?"

As the room again fills with cheers and wolf-whistles, the two in question come forward with smiles that make Sam more than a little nervous and open their hands, casting what appears to be glitter all over the two of them.

"Oh, come _on_," Sam protests as Andy futilely brushes at the front of her uniform. "This stuff stays in your hair for weeks."

"Yes, yes," Oliver says with a grin. "May your happiness outlast this glitter, which they'll still be finding in the rug after the next Ice Age. Assignments are on the board, everyone."

As officers begin to disperse, Nash approaches them, squeezing their arms. "I can't believe you didn't _tell_ me," she hisses to Andy. "I owe you a bachelorette party, at least."

"Get some wine and junk food, and we'll call it even," Andy tells her with a grin as Sam turns to Oliver.

"How did you know?"

Oliver motions to Sam's left hand. "Saw you taking the ring off before you got in the car this morning. I've never known you to be a big jewelry guy, plus McNally didn't bother hiding hers."

Sam cocks his head, reaching into the pocket of his jeans for the gold band. "And the glitter?"

"Ah, yes," Oliver says with a sage nod. "_That_ is the result of Zoe leaving the younger of our precious children here with no notice and little entertainment other than arts and crafts projects. But really, if you and McNally want to take some more time off after your depositions, it's fine. I'd hate to cut the honeymoon short."

"I'll talk to her about it tonight." Sam claps his friend on the back. "Thanks, man. For everything with this."

"Anytime, brother." Oliver grins before turning his attention to a rookie with a question.

The room empties, and Sam and Andy turn toward one another. "How does your morning look?" Andy asks.

Sam shrugs. "Wasn't really paying attention to anything Oliver said before he called us up. I'll probably spend the next two hours getting glitter off of me, and then Nash can fill me in on whatever's been going on. You?"

"Riding with Chloe. Don't worry, I'll pay her back; I think she's scared of snakes." Andy laughs.

"So I'll see you back here this afternoon?" Sam asks, holding the door for her.

Andy nods. "Yep. And tonight?"

"I'm sure we'll figure it out. Although, you know, at some point we're gonna have to figure out a permanent solution to 'your place or mine.'"

"At some point," Andy agrees. "But I think there are more important things we need to take care of first."

"Oh, really." He raises an eyebrow.

She nods, stopping in the hallway. "I'll see you later. If it's slow, maybe I'll even bring you lunch." When she doesn't move, he looks at her curiously. "Go!" she urges him, motioning toward the D's office.

He starts toward the bullpen, but turns back after about ten paces. She's still there, a satisfied smirk on her face, and she is… yep, she's unabashedly checking out his posterior.

Sam chuckles to himself as he continues on. Whether or not the honeymoon's over, he has a feeling the adventure has yet to begin.


End file.
